Is cumbersome when it seems self-conscious, and works well when it seems effortless, when Talib ceases overcompensating with overproduction, diva guest spots, or repetitive political invective.

Happy People is, if this is possible, the smoothest and frothiest album of the year. U Saved Me is chicken soup for the soul man. Its born-again ballads are fundamentally frothy, in their heavy-handed, gospel-tinged way.

Every new song of theirs could be three old ones, though, and while their drummer can pound out four on the floor, their organ player still can't squeeze out that 97th tear.

Endicott, who jumps skin from Julian Casablancas to Robert Smith to the guy from the Killers in just three tracks, has less charisma than a mustard plug.

As I Am--very much an album about the condition her condition is in, very much an album in the old-fashioned sense, a complete work: one you shouldn't subject to shuffle before you've given Keys's sequencing a chance to work its magic, its rising and falling arcs, its gut-punch-and-goose-bumps denouement.

Thanks to singer Jim Adkins's bottomless well of high-flying choruses (not to mention the general shittiness of current affairs), the formula still delivers.

An easy contender for best rap record of the year.

On Crayons, it’s like no time has passed at all, and of course it hasn't.

Quality genre work from an artist with visionary potential.

These scuzzy Voidoids are as immature as Blink-182 were; they just have hipper ways of hiding it—like pretending punk and new wave were the same thing.

On Interpol, he and his bandmates manage the seemingly unmanageable task of finding new wrinkles in a tightly defined sound, one that's been theirs for nearly a decade.

Too many of these songs get bogged down in chord changes and lyrics likely to sound worn-out even to a 10-year-old.

Places Like This ultimately shares qualities with its IM-chat womb: It's entertaining as hell, but eventually you'd rather just minimize the window and get on with your day.

The spine of nearly every one of their grainy black songs glows with a luminous vocal melody.

There's nothing wrong with making music for tweens, or lighter-lofting boomers. It's simply a matter of execution, and here these chums are scattered and grasping.

Up against the carefully realized Wide Awake, Digital Ash is a mess, and not just sonically.

Even more staunchly pop than their previous records.

Death Cab succeed by refusing to offend. That can be an admirable trait in a person, but never in a musician.

Still waiting for the next Lo Fidelity Allstars album? Wish there were more Stereo MC's-like stuff in car ads? Wondering where great songwriting teams like Gallagher/Gallagher have gone? Then Kasabian were made for you! They offer all the same thrills of the aforementioned artists, and they sound like Primal Scream, too!

I'd call it "psych-drone-sludge" except it's more tuneful and lively than those words imply.

The Secret Machines takes the band back where they started, focusing on blistering psych-rock that's nonetheless accessible and doesn't sound like it's overcompensating for something, even if there's plenty to compensate for.

Smith shifts much of her focus subtly away from the instrumentation and toward a song's intention and lyrics, with often revelatory results.

Mainly there's either promising melodies (the "Crucify"-aping "Parasol") ruined by cringe-y lyrics, or decent lyrical ideas executed like a Yoplait commercial. ("This is sooo good." "Pirates good!" Cue bongos.)

For all the extracurricular drama, it's pretty good.

Compared to the patchwork G-funk on Dead Man Walkin, Tha Last Meal is a sonic wonderworld. Dr. Dre and Timbaland gussy up Snoop's drag with their unique shuffles, making his descent into even deeper banality irrelevant.

Perhaps if she'd just kept it crunk, she could have produced something really deffer and fresher, instead of merely pleasantly reminiscent of the past.

In playing it straight, however, the Pups emphasize their abilities as skilled synthesists rather than merely falling back on their rep as inspired eccentrics, suggesting a band that, though grounded, has yet to plateau.

Anti-war, pro-environment, religious ('Chelsea Rodgers' only gives up trim if you're baptized), and funky, Planet Earth is still merely an excuse to tour.

Like nearly any DM record, Exciter, their 14th album, mostly leaves one hungry for the inevitable remixes.

Songs like "Frantic," "Dirty Window," and even the balladesque "Sweet Amber" stop and start, cut to pieces by groove-robbing edits that replace the guitar harmonies on which Metallica built an industry.

Solidified by finally having a mostly established band, this record is less impressive than their pre-’90s work, but better than anything since 1994, and generally a welcome addition to their already established résumé.

It's not the production, as copiously sexy as it is, that makes this great: It's that Kylie has an ear for fantastic pop-rock tunes restyled for 2008, and she approaches them not as merely amusing sonic glitter, but as totally vital music.

Neither a straight feminist critique nor a tribute album, Strange Little Girls is rather a nuanced exploration of the dualities of love and aggression.

Meth serves up relatively safe, occasionally dope, and consistently scruffy boom-bap.

All in all, Hard Candy could be the greatest swan song to a pop career this side of Let It Be, if you wanna get all hyperbolic about it.

Some of the sound makes for gorgeous fury.... But a little concision--and a bit of Pete Wentz's tune sense--would've gone a long way.

Somehow, the Game is still coasting on wispy, West Coast–nostalgia fumes--chronic, red rags, lolos, etc.--but the goodwill, at this point, has pretty much exhausted itself.

A little too sitting-on-the-dock-of-the-bay for Chris Breezy–trained earbuds, perhaps, Here I Stand is pure grown-man bidness.

As it was on 2003's O, Damien Rice's songs are so naked emotionally that even listening is akin to eavesdropping on a bad breakup.

There are tracks on Cake and Pie that suggest Loeb might have been a badass had she realized herself when boofy bangs and women with lightning-bolt guitars were defining pop.

His optimism is renewable and satisfying, and for it Field Manual is enjoyable overall.

A halfway successful attempt by Cook to stake his claim as Serious Artist.... Cook started work on Halfway feeling paralyzed by the problem of how to bypass big beat's exhausted fastbreaks-acidriffs-oldskoolsamples formula. He found his path by partially abandoning breakbeats in favor of house's hypnotic four-to-the-floor, and by bringing in what he's called an "almost gospelly" flavor.... It's surprising, though, how much dated, big-beat-style pummel you have to endure before the almost gospel vibe's glorious return.

The infectious melodies and wealth of diminished seventh chords on the Robbers' debut, Tree City, almost play like Maroon 5 for kids too cool to be seen with Songs About Jane.

After one listen to I Get Wet, you'll swear you've heard it before... but somehow, you've never heard anything like it.

The History of Rock, despite being not nearly as funny or fruggable, despite mostly haphazardly handpicking rerecorded renditions of old songs that are no match for new hesher-hop product by upstarts like Kottonmouth Kings and Brougham, and despite leaving such fuzzily boinging Beastie-beatboxed scratch-rap goodies as "Live" and "Classic Rock" in the vault, is still a keeper.

A.R.E. Weapons is one of the most interesting records ever to use disco electrobeats and synth washes for rock'n'roll effect.

With Goodbye, he's finally got the levels just right. By moving even closer to the shoegazer sound, the result sounds less like pilfering and more like reinvention.

¿Cómo Te Llama? is best when the songs seem to shake and quaver within their candy-coated shells; fittingly, that’s when they’re at their Strokes-iest.

What, besides an extra layer of production syrup, can Believer cuts like "Ain't That Strange" and "Delicate" offer that almost any Old 97's barn burner can't?

Though some sections are plodding and one-dimensional, others lock into place.

In the end, it's Oasis's attempts to capture former pinnacles, from trying to re-create the simple sunny-side-up pleasures of "Live Forever" to trying for another album-ending mountain like "Champagne Supernova," that keep their latter-day output so entirely forgettable.

Busta's best record yet.

The problem with Greendale-the-CD is that too many songs rely on simple blues vamps that neither Young nor Crazy Horse manages to rave up into their trademark protogrunge.... But you keep listening because he's created real setting, plot, and character.

Townshend's faith in rock 'n' roll as an appropriate vehicle for his biggest ideas is admirable, but Endless Wire does little to justify his devotion.

Only the tragic decision to duet with former employer Don Henley mars the ride.

[Fridmann's] atmospheric flourishes have always been heavy handed, but here they muddle tightly conceived pop tunes that would've sounded better scrappy.

Despite creating some killer drones in '03 and '04, the duo has been in decline for more than two years now, and the trend continues with All the Way.

Through headphones or computer speakers, Caleb's echoey vocals just don't ring credible. Their Black-Crowes-go-new-wave choruses are exciting enough, but they feel unearned after tiresome, oversung verses.

Nothing else on the album [other than single "My Love Is Like . . . Wo"] is quite so perfect a vehicle for Mya's predatory sexuality.[

The mood is lulling, narrative, and pictorial even when the lyrics disappear—all subtly melodic and gloriously smudged.

There is care and artistry throughout.

Lucky Day isn't about transforming the human condition, just about remaining Mr. Lover Lover--the man with a fluid waistline and the promise of good bed time.

Together, they craft lilting, light-hearted art-folk that recalls something akin to Joni Mitchell sitting in with '80s British popsters Prefab Sprout at best, or some Renaissance Faire troubadour's best attempt at improv at its most mediocre.

What keeps Blitzkrieg from descending into petulant shtick is Haas's compositional ear.

There's something rote and antiseptic about the album's party mood--the electro-beats' clean squelch, the undercooked hooks, the odd primness of Kylie's singing.

It's as esoteric as you'd expect RZA to be. But it's also more Wu.

The result is impressive genre prowess--especially when he invites Austin unknown Deon Davis (a/k/a Element 7d) to contribute some post-rap boogie on 'Crystal Lite,' or rips off Wham’s 'Everything She Wants' on 'I Choose You'--but Pants might still be flexing prematurely.

Less than the sum of their parts, the album and the band don't even amount to an interesting failure, because the known quantities do what they have always done only this time in tandem.

Anchored by predigested melodic hooks, Nelly's songs seem composed with the sole intention of ending up as your next ringtone. [Combined review of both discs]

With the fabulously synthetic surfaces forming a cozy cocoon around Merritt's reflexive cynicism, the new FBH EP is a shiny, acidic counterpoint to the twilit wallow of [6ths album] Hyacinths.

So while '5 Times Out of 100' and 'My Best Friend' revive old times, you miss Steve Bay's unhinged vocals and jagged keyboards elsewhere when HHH instead try to compensate with a funky chant- rocker ('Give Up') or a big-drama Raspberries tribute (the title track).

Nicely mimics the timbre of Tony Visconti-ville circa '71-'74.

It's solid, but as with Radiohead's Kid A follow-up Amnesiac, it highlights its predecessor's brilliance rather than asserting its own.

When there is a firm hand reining him in, Game can still make good rap music. Left to his own devices, however, he produces a dismaying mess.

Problem is, Walk It Off is recorded like a single, 45-minute Big Event, rendering the alleged omniharp, tubular bells, and timpani mere liner-note abstractions.

I'm just not sure that pop music should come out of a thesaurus.

Tossed-off, underdone, monotonous, unfinished, and redundant maybe, but not bad.

Discipline is the most cohesive deep-groove album from La Jackson since "Control."

Nearly every song sounds like either a redux of or reject from its predecessor.

They're the English equivalent of Fountains of Wayne.

The real problem, though, isn't the music (accomplished and catchy enough for distracted listening), nor is it Nelly's own verses (more stylish than substantive, as always). Rather, it's that a dedicated capitalist--hear his "Buy me the mall" manifesto on 'Hold Up'--is using a business model that's on its way to extinction.

If Vandervelde's new set struggles to generate the same charge, maybe that's because it doesn't approach its source material with the same aggression or playfulness.

Tom's not quite so lovable when he's preaching his anti-non-Petty doctrine in a series of songs that often don't rise above the level of mediocrity themselves.

Without Sis, Matthew still does just fine, but let's be honest: You know the style by now.

T.I. vs. T.I.P. makes for a confusing listen, which is a shame—fans would probably never have questioned who T.I. is until he started questioning himself.

Mostly the fascination here is with sounds-not-songs, which is fine for the year Portishead came back, as long as the Faint have enough dial tones and farts swiped from Thom Yorke's basement tapes to deck out Fink's traditionally one-note delivery when attention wanders.

Strangely: no guitar, only piano. Which, strangely, doesn't make them sound any more romantic, nor does it add interest to the other songs, which are either too slow, too genre, or too lyrically distracting.

The world only needed one Electric Six album, but for a few understated moments, this one makes the case for a second.

Conspiracy of One? It's fine. Is there anything here as cute as "Pretty Fly (for a White Guy)"? No: Like with Ixnay on the Hombre, their follow-up to the megahit Smash, this follow-up to the even more megahit Americana finds them in dance-with-the-girl-what-brung-you mode--more punk, less pop.

Why didn't they travel this far out of the box initially?

Alas, despite dipping into conscious rap territory, Luda's freaknik is still in full effect.

The near-crazed desperation to please listeners for her own sake is all over Merry Christmas II You: A "gift" to her fans (or so she claims) that they, of course, must pay for, it's her fascinating, career-long saga of self-obsession in a nutshell.

Once they could juggle being both captivating and grating. Today, they're just the latter.

Somebody press more charges against this fool--he's losing focus.

Like any good corporate-mandated sequel, it reprises the strengths of its original product with as little variation as possible, to predictably diminished returns.

This is a bad rap album, and one that needed the shock of Internet promotion that the Jay-Z diss on "It's Good" gave it when C4 leaked.

While it's tempting to write it off as but one more retro paste-up, Swayzak's uncanny sense of texture, timbre, and space justifies an approach that otherwise seems like a drift toward Alzheimer's.

The title track's having-it-all exhaustion, underscored by its bipolar sonics and start-stop rhythms, will endear her to the Allison Pearson crowd; a few other tunes will reinforce her fan base among fellow whiny celebrities.